73 The Philosophers' Convention

Right after Succoth the annual convention of 'The New Society for Israeli Philosophy' took place at Tel Aviv University. I spent many years at that university and have two degrees that I received there. Partly due to nostalgia as well as the desire to keep up with present day philosophical thought I took the time and went to the convention. I was glad that the opening address was delivered by my teacher that supervise my thesis for master's degree in philosophy, the honorable Ben-Ami Sharfstein, winner of the 'Israel Prize' of Philosophy in 2005.

Here he is in the picture, eighty nine years old and still more creative and wiser than many of his young colleagues. He is standing on the stage of Gilman Auditorium 144, where I heard the introductory philosophy lectures as a freshman, many years ago. What he says is simple. He urges philosophers younger than himself not to shut themselves off from the world or from non-philosophical research methods, to be receptive to every idea and to refrain from dogmatic conclusions. He urges them to be skeptics – even concerning their own conclusions.

I spent about half a day at the convention and skipped from one lecture to another. I wanted to get an impression of the discussions on various subjects. I came across a room in which there were lectures on contemporary French philosophy. As one who was educated in the spirit of analytical philosophy (it was in fashion at that time) and as a person whose inclination is towards what is clear and logical, I am very skeptical about the complicated linguistic constructions and the intentional obscurantism of modern French philosophy. What I heard at the convention did not lessen these reservations. I left the room quickly, before the lecture of my former fellow–student who is now amongst the leaders of that sect, whose discourse is an impossible tangle of winding, indistinct and closed language.

Afterwards I heard a few more lectures on various subjects. In one of them a young philosopher attempted to test morals with logical means, but his line of reasoning came to a halt after one logical step and he became completely entangled before he managed to contend even one interesting argument. On my way back home I thought about that and concluded that it would have been better if the young colleagues had listened more carefully to the remarks of the old philosopher. One of the tests of clear thinking is the ability to explain it to the common man, as Socrates did in Athens' Agora. Philosophy that cannot be expressed in clear, simple, understandable language runs the danger of losing contact with reality and becomes tied up in disconcerting inner contradictions.

72 Yom Kippur 1973

I slept in my room in the kibbutz. The only telephone of the kibbutz was in the dining hall. Someone came to wake me up. The call was from my squadron. They asked me to come immediately. It was Saturday, Yom Kippur, 1973. Kibbutz Hatzor is located within walking distance of an air force base. I walked to the base and caught a ride from the living quarters to the airfield. I reached the runway of the light aircraft. Already additional pilots had begun to assemble. I was one of the youngest. There was no chance of my getting a Piper (Pa-18 "Super Cub"). The veteran pilots had already taken them all. Someone received a call from his squadron asking him to bring maps, he ran to look for them. His partner was already sitting in a Piper with the propeller running. There was a feeling that something big was happening. But we didn't know what it was. After the light planes departed we waited for a transport plane that would distribute us between various bases.

When I landed in Ezion (in the "Moon Valley") I learned that my squadron had been disbanded and its members had been distributed among other flight squadrons. The Skyhawk flight squadron established in Ezion was a new one, and not yet operational. Every one of us received an airplane 'as a bonus' and was sent to one of the other Skyhawk squadron bases. Thus I returned to Tel Nof, but not to my original squadron, from which I had been transferred to Ezion, but to its twin squadron.

I remember that one evening the "Kaveret" ensemble performed on the squadron's porch. And on another evening (perhaps at the end of the war, I don't remember exactly) Leonard Cohen made an appearance on the base's football field.

As early as the end of the first day of the war I was informed that the plane of my classmate Ishai Katziri, was shot down near the Suez Canal, in the Bardawil area, and he was considered to be missing in action. On my first leave of a few hours in the course of the war, I sat in Ishai's parents room in the kibbutz, dressed in my flight overalls. They spread before me a map of Sinai and asked me to show them where their son's plane was shot down. I did not know what to say and in my heart there was little hope. Afterwards we learned that Ishai was a prisoner of war in Egypt. He returned about a month and a half after the war. His story and the story of the failed attempt of the General Staff's special unit to rescue him, was shown a few days ago in a television film on the program "The True Story".

One day toward the end of the war Ran Peker, the base commander, called us for a talk. All of the pilots. I sat at the top in the last row of a little auditorium. From the middle aisle a pilot from another kibbutz, married to a girl from my kibbutz, came up to me. He said, "Yesterday I was in Hatzor, someone there was killed, someone from your class – Gilead". Such moments you remember forever. Gilead Zohar was my best friend. A musician. He had the soul of an artist. I remember the words that went through my head: "I have lost this war already".

Afterwards I went on a mission from which I almost did not return. We bombed the surrounded Egyptian Third Army. We blocked their escape routes. Everything was quiet already. We flew at a high altitude in a circle for bombing, almost as we did in practice flights. Suddenly I heard a shout: "Four, break! A missile…!" I flipped over and pulled the stick with all my strength. In the mirror I saw a pillar of fire passing behind my plane. My savior was a veteran reservist pilot, who flew for "Arkia". If it had not been for him, my fate would have been like that of Gershon Funk, from my flight course, who, while flying at high altitude, was hit by a rocket which blew him and his plane to smithereens.

I remember the return from that flight. These words did not leave my mind, "I have lost this war already". Since we fled from enemy missiles and attacked once again we were running out of fuel and landed at Refidim to refuel. One of the refuelers was a member of my kibbutz. I sat in the plane (we refueled without leaving the aircraft) without my helmet and he recognized me. He yelled to me, "Have you heard about Gilead?" I answered, "Yes". We looked at each other and did not say another word.

I remember the film about Ishai. Mainly the words of one of the fighters that were send to find him. He said that the only thing in the present situation that reminds him of the special spirit of those days, are the military actions of Hezbollah. He also said that he feels that we are living the last days of Pompeii. Everything is good as long as it is good. But our sons no longer see any reason to make sacrifices as we did, unconditionally, whole heartedly. Even in a moment of need, he said, our children will not be willing to sacrifice as we did.

71 Early Evening in Tel Aviv

Every Tuesday in the early evening, I go to Tel Aviv. I always enter the city at the same hour, but in every season of the year that is a completely different time. In winter I begin my trip in the dark, and when I arrive in Tel Aviv it seems to me that night has already fallen on the city. As the days grow longer darkness descends while I am still on my way, and evening begins as I enter the city. In summer, on the other hand, my journey begins in the middle of the day, in blinding sunlight, and even when I park my car in the big city, full daylight continues to flood the streets.

This picture was taken in the middle of July, slightly after 6 PM. As yet there is complete daylight, and a bright sun burns diagonally in the sky. The shadow in the picture is misleading, because the light pouring down from the narrow strip between the trees caused the closure of the camera's automatic shutter, and the feeling of dimness and haze. The front window of the car, through which the picture was taken, also contributed to this effect and that explains the vague and dreamy feeling, a feeling which increases when one notices that there is no one in the street. The car on the road also looks to be frozen in hazy time.

I like roads that are lined on both sides with big trees. Such was my street, until wisecrackers of the local council accepted the bad advice of the electric company and the bat haters, and pruned the Ficus trees viciously until all that remained of them were bare trunks.

I like the symmetrical perspective that such avenues create. Note the diagonal lines created by the parked cars at the sides of the road and the narrow opening of the upper triangle of light. Note also the vanishing point to which our gaze is directed. It is above the upper left corner of the car traveling in front of me. It is rather strange to find a house there that blocks the continuation of the middle of the road line. The movement to infinity stops immediately.

Notice the light reflected from the road and the shine of the cars on the left. The sun is in front and somewhat to the right. Here is the Tel Aviv of a dream at the magical hour of late evening.

70 Jerusalem

On the last day of August we drove to Jerusalem to meet my cousin from Florida whom I had never met. We had decided to meet on the Armon Hanatziv promenade. Until then we wandered on the promenade and gazed at Jerusalem – the beautiful city, a difficult city, one that gives itself easily to the eye but guards its secrets. We also looked at the houses of Jabel Mukaber which border on the promenade.

My father left the United States when he was in his twenties (already with an M.A. in history), and came to Israel six months before the establishment of the state of Israel to be a pioneer in a kibbutz of 'Hashomer Hatzair'. To this day he lives in Kibbutz Hatzor. Before he immigrated to Israel he had fought with the American army in Germany and there, in 1945 near Heidelberg he was wounded in his leg by a German sniper's bullet.

All of my father's brothers remained in the United States. One of them (Barny) I had met once in Washington, D.C., where he worked on the White House staff. The eldest brother (Sam, that is to say, Samuel) was a pharmacist. Art (Arthur, that is to say, Abraham), whom we drove to meet in Jerusalem, is Sam's youngest son. Jerry, Art's older brother, I met in the seventies in New York, and much later I was his guest together with my youngest son Yuval, on the west coast, near San Francisco. At the same time I became acquainted with their sister Lyn, who is an artist and a film director.

From the time that I began to publish "Pictures from my Cell Phone" my connection with my family in the United States has strengthened somewhat. All my posts are translated into English and sent to my mailing list abroad, among them many of my relatives. In that way dialogue develops sometimes that is a continuation of things written due to the influence of the pictures.

We had decided to meet on the Armon Hanatziv Promenade. In the meantime, until the arrival of my cousin and my brother who was going to pick him up from his hotel, we observed the landscape and waited. It was hot. I looked at the Mount of Olives and at the houses on its slope. In the photo my wife and father are talking. Soon my father will meet his brother's son, whom he had seen only once – in 1946 after he returned from the war in Europe.